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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162698">No Happy Ending In Sight For Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermusicmad/pseuds/supermusicmad'>supermusicmad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Eye Horror, Tragedy, but it's very background to the plot, consensual but unpleasant use of beholding powers, jonmartin is established, set during ep 160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:28:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,663</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermusicmad/pseuds/supermusicmad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically a fix-it fic for 160, but not the happy kind. Martin comes back early from his walk in the Highlands - and everything goes downhill from there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title is from Once Upon A Time (In Space) by The Mechanisms.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Scottish Highlands are certainly beautiful, there’s no denying that. The landscape is completely unlike what Martin is used to, and while the hills are exhausting to walk up, they’re awe-inspiring to look at. Jon and Martin have been on a couple of walks together but tend to stay in the safehouse most of the time. Shelter and companionship are what they both need most. There’s a feeling of sanctuary in the house – probably irrational, as walls are hardly protection against Beholding. It’s a comforting illusion none the less. Combine that with Martin’s aversion to being alone for longer than he has to, and he’s still getting used to being out of the little home without Jon.</p>
<p>It turns out he’d forgotten one other thing about Scotland. It’s cold.</p>
<p>Martin pauses to admire the view. The autumn air is slightly damp, and the wind ruffles his hair and chills his skin. He left about ten minutes ago, when he’d given Jon the box of statements from Basira. Good news, of course – Jon had been trying to hide it, but over the last few days he’s been looking worn down, sleeping more and eating less, very deliberately choosing his words so no hint of his powers can seep through the cracks. Martin had been preparing himself to bite the bullet and just offer Jon a statement if it had gone on much longer, but he’s grateful that doesn’t seem to be necessary now.</p>
<p>So yes, the statements arriving is good news. On the other hand, watching Jon feed is… uncomfortable. Martin’s only caught glimpses in the past, usually when he’s walked in on it by accident and quickly left when he realised what was happening. He always tries to play it cool, but seeing Jon like that scares him. That’s the simple fact of it.</p>
<p>Jon is strong. He’s the Archivist, he’s powerful and unwavering. Except when he feeds. When he’s reading a statement, he doesn’t appear as the master of the information at his fingertips. He looks like an instrument of it, weak and helpless, led by the inexorable current of the story. He’s malleable clay for the words to twist into whatever shape they need. Martin can’t stand to see him like that.</p>
<p>Still, if they’re going to be spending much more time together (and despite everything, Martin does hope that, very much), he probably ought to get used to seeing it. Jon doesn’t shun Martin in his moments of weakness. Maybe Martin can learn to do the same.</p>
<p>Besides which, it really is <em>bloody</em> cold. He should go back and get a warmer jacket.</p>
<p>He sighs, turns around and heads back along the road he came up. It’s quicker downhill, and the cold hastens his step. Within minutes he’s outside the front door, rifling through his pockets for the keys and eventually opening the door. He’s about to call out to Jon when he hears something that makes him freeze.</p>
<p>A voice from inside the house. A voice that isn’t Jon’s.</p>
<p>No, wait. That is Jon. Isn’t it?</p>
<p>Yes. It must be. That’s Jon. But for just a moment, Martin had been certain it was Elias.</p>
<p>Martin spends a few moments collecting himself, stood at the front door and convincing himself fully that Elias is definitely not here. It’s just paranoia, he tells himself firmly. Jon always sounds different when he’s reading statements, and Martin is scared to see him like that, and what else is he scared of? Elias. Or Jonah now, he supposes. Martin’s mind is just conflating his fears, but it’s not real.</p>
<p>The moment he sees Jon, something feels wrong.</p>
<p>Jon doesn’t look up from the statement as he hears Martin enter the small living room, if he even hears it. Jon always looks engrossed when he’s reading, but this time he doesn’t react at all. Not a smile, not a glance, not a gesture. Nothing. Now Martin can hear it more clearly, it’s obvious that the voice he’s taken on for this statement is remarkably similar to Elias, the same level of smug, calm, confident certainty. But from what Martin can see of Jon’s face as he stares down at the paper in his hand, his expression does not match his tone. His expression is terrified.</p>
<p>Martin tries to pretend that this is fine. He’s probably overthinking it. Jon needs his statement, and that’s all this is. He offers Jon a small wave, although Jon isn’t looking, and crosses the room to pick up his coat.</p>
<p>There’s a loud <em>thump</em>.</p>
<p>Martin looks back to Jon again. Although Jon’s voice hadn’t wavered (he’s saying something about Gertrude Robinson, but Martin doesn’t register the words) and his eyes hadn’t moved from the paper in his hand, he’d just brought his fist down loudly on the desk. His arm is now shaking with the effort of the movement. Jon is trying to get Martin’s attention. Jon needs his help.</p>
<p>Martin tries to rush over to him, but he doesn’t make it more than a few steps. There’s that sense of being Seen, the feeling that became simple background noise to him at the Institute. Now it radiates from Jon like an aura, and the closer Martin gets to him the more he feels it. So strong it <em>hurts</em>. It’s like a physical heat, like a fire Martin can’t approach. His skin prickles and sweats and he recoils involuntarily, backing away to the door.</p>
<p>For a few minutes all he can do is listen. He doesn’t understand every word, but he understands enough. Elias sent this statement. Elias <em>gave</em> this statement, about Jon, and they’ve both been tricked by him. Now Jon is trapped in the flow of the words, too starving and desperate to stop himself from reading.</p>
<p>Jon waves a hand, intent on getting Martin’s attention again. He can’t look away from the statement to see if he’s got it, but Martin is watching intently now. Jon is still reading steadily but he’s shaking all over, and every movement independent of the statement is obviously exhausting and painful. He’s fighting the current. He allows himself a moment’s pause, a moment’s rest, before he raises a single trembling finger and draws it across his own throat.</p>
<p>Martin shakes his head. What is Jon even asking? Martin can’t do it. He won’t. But the more Martin hears, the more he’s starting to understand. This isn’t a statement. It’s a ritual. <em>Jon</em> is a ritual. And the ritual can’t be allowed to finish.</p>
<p>Martin thinks quickly. He knows he’ll have to get close to Jon to stop this, have to brace himself against the scorching gaze of the Beholding and approach. His first thought is simply to get close enough to cover Jon’s mouth with his hand, force his jaw shut, just make him stop talking somehow. But within a couple of attempts it soon becomes clear he can’t withstand the onslaught for more than a few seconds. He needs something he can do quickly, be in and out of the room without having to be close to Jon for too long.</p>
<p>Martin is starting to panic now. For a moment he thinks he’ll just – run up and hit Jon round the head with something, but he discounts that idea quickly. A head injury is too unpredictable - he's just as likely to kill Jon outright as he is to have no effect whatsoever.</p>
<p>Jon still doesn’t look up, but he reaches blindly for something on the desk and holds it out to Martin. It glints slightly in the light, and the effort it costs Jon to hold it is clearly too much for him, because a moment later it drops back to the desk again with a clatter. It’s unnerving to see Jon look so utterly broken and terrified, while his voice still carries out clear and even.</p>
<p>“Repeat after me,” he says, and Martin realises he’s out of time. He rushes forwards, into the searing heat of being Seen, and picks up the letter opener from where it landed on the desk.</p>
<p>Afterwards Martin will try to pretend that Jon managed to look up at him, maybe caught his eye for a moment. He’ll imagine he saw pleading in Jon’s expression, acceptance, forgiveness for what he was about to do. He’ll imagine he saw a single tear rolling down Jon’s cheek.</p>
<p>None of those things happen. Jon is subsumed by the statement, and he only keeps reading and reading up until the moment Martin slides the blade between his ribs.</p>
<p>Jon stumbles and his breath hitches, but the current he’s caught in is too strong. Martin stabs again, and a third time, before his mind buckles under the weight of the Beholding and he stumbles backwards, away from Jon and back to the window. He watches the blood seep across Jon’s shirt, spreading in a red blossom, and the statement doesn’t tell Jon to stem the bleeding, so he doesn’t. He just sits there, the words pouring out of his mouth as the blood pours out of his side.</p>
<p>“Come to us in your wholeness,” he’s saying. The words are accompanied by a tiny trickle of blood, tracing a path out of Jon’s lips, down his face and dripping off his chin onto the paper. “Come to us in your perfection.” He looks odd, rigid, as if he’s being held up by something other than the waning strength of his own body, and Martin swears for a moment his eyes look like they’re glowing, pale and colourless.</p>
<p>Jon’s words aren’t slowing down. Martin is still holding the letter opener in his hand. He knows what he has to do.</p>
<p>Martin hasn’t recovered from the last time, but he dives straight back into the oppressive cloud of Knowing that’s surrounding Jon. He feels vulnerable, predictable, defenceless. He grips the blade in his hand tighter as if that can protect him against the sheer terror of being Seen. He stands behind Jon and prepares himself.</p>
<p>Jon has not stopped in his chanting. He’s not looking at the statement on the paper any more. His eyes stare out blindly at nothing. “-the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves,” he chants. He doesn’t appear to be breathing as he does so, and Martin can’t look. “-and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and-”</p>
<p>Martin draws the blade across Jon’s throat.</p>
<p>Hot blood surges across Martin’s hands, Jon’s front and the desk. Jon’s words halt with an awful strangled gurgle. For a few moments he seems to still be trying to talk, but soon he goes quiet and slumps back in his seat, into Martin’s waiting, blood-soaked arms.</p>
<p>The watched feeling no longer burns at Martin’s mind.</p>
<p>There is silence. Martin feels like he’s waiting for something.</p>
<p>Nothing happens, and so he starts to act slowly, as if in a dream, with none of the urgency the situation should call for. He strips his blood-stained jumper off and presses it to the wound at Jon’s neck, hoping to stem the bleeding – he reasons that Jon is supposed to heal fast and has recovered from worse than the three stab wounds in his side. His cut throat is a bigger issue.</p>
<p>Martin’s eye catches the statement. It’s on the desk, splattered with Jon’s blood, but Martin can still read large sections of it. He picks it up with one blood-stained hand, smears as much as he can across the page to make it unreadable, and then crumples it up and throws it across the room. Later he’ll burn it. He doesn’t have time for that now.</p>
<p>A loud sob cuts through the silence. Martin is surprised by the noise, and he takes a few moments to realise it came from him. And with that understanding he’s suddenly present again, huge ugly tears pouring down his face and wails gushing out through his lips as he realises where he is, and what he’s done.</p>
<p> “Jon, please,” he begs in between his cries. “Wake up. Jon!” Martin checks his pulse and his breathing. Both present, miraculously, but ragged and weak. Jon has survived being blown up before, surely he can survive this. Can’t he? Unless the ritual Elias had put him through had weakened him. Is that possible?</p>
<p>Martin can’t call an ambulance. Jon isn’t human, what exactly would an ambulance crew think of him? The only thing Martin can do is wait. Either Jon will wake up, or he’ll die. </p>
<p>The sky outside is clear. The sun shines and the world turns. People go about their everyday lives, blissfully unaware.</p>
<p>But inside the tiny house, with Jon bleeding out in his arms, Martin Blackwood feels as though his world is ending.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please check the new tags for content warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon is exhausted, and he’s in pain. He’s aware of those two things even before he’s woken up. And honestly, neither of them motivates him to want to wake up. But he knows he’ll wake anyway, sooner or later. He already feels his eyelids fluttering uncertainly. He’s lying on his back, he can tell that much. He’s propped up against something soft. He thinks he’s in a bed.</p>
<p><em>“Right now you have a choice,”</em> a voice says in his mind, familiar. He isn’t hearing it, not really, it’s just a memory. He’s done this before. <em>“You’re not quite human enough to die, but still too human to survive.”</em></p>
<p>He’s already made his choice. He doesn’t remember making it, but he can feel the decision pulling at him, tugging him away from his timeless nightmares and back to the world.</p>
<p>Jon wakes up. He thinks for a short time that he’s alone in the bedroom of the safehouse, but when he painfully looks round (his movement hampered by the thick dressing taped to his neck) he sees that Martin is sat on the floor by his bed, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed. He’s wearing a soft-looking t-shirt and clean jeans. He looks pale and tired and Jon thinks he might be asleep, but when Jon moves and makes a faint noise of pain, Martin’s eyes shoot open immediately and he jumps to his feet.</p>
<p>“Jon!” Martin’s voice is so soft that tears spring to Jon’s eyes immediately. He blinks them back, embarrassed at his helplessness, as Martin leans over him and brushes hair back out of his forehead. “Thank God, Jon, I thought you were – I thought I’d…”</p>
<p>Jon pats Martin’s arm and opens his mouth to say something comforting, but of course his voice doesn’t come to him. Just searing pain through his throat. He tries again stupidly, even though he knows exactly what happened. He remembers every agonised second, and he knows it’s going to take even him some time to heal that sort of injury. If it ever heals. Underneath the dressing Martin must have put on the wound, the cut still feels fresh and painful. Last time this happened was the Unknowing, and Jon was unconscious for six months. How long has he lost this time?</p>
<p>Very slowly, Jon sits up. Martin straightens and take a step back, as if he doesn’t dare be too close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I just – I panicked. I know it was stupid, I should have thought of something better, but there was no time, and I thought you wanted me to-”</p>
<p>Jon cuts him off with a single raised hand and a soft, pained smile. He desperately wants to tell Martin that he did a fantastic job, that whatever happened is nothing in comparison to the end of the world. Martin Blackwood saved the world, and Jon is only proud.</p>
<p>Lacking words, he simply opens his arms. Martin looks hesitant, as if he’s scared of hurting Jon again, but Jon just waits and moments later Martin’s grief overcomes his fear. He sits down on the bed and leans into Jon’s embrace. His face is pressed against Jon’s shoulder and his breathing sounds uneven and wet. Jon just rubs his back in mute contemplation.</p>
<p>Jon finds himself remarkably <em>not</em> upset by this. Considering how things could have gone, this doesn’t feel like a bad conclusion. Maybe Martin doesn’t know yet exactly what he’s prevented, but Jon knows. It was so close that Jon could feel it, could See it. He’d always considered any one of the entities entering the world as the worst thing that could possibly happen, an apocalypse of a scale he couldn’t imagine. Now he’s felt the burgeoning, incomprehensible terror of all fourteen of them approaching the world, and losing his voice seems like a small price to pay for avoiding that. Losing his <em>life</em> would have been an acceptable price, if it had come to that.</p>
<p>Holding a crying, wretched Martin in his arms, though, does fill him with a fleeting burst of regret.</p>
<p>Martin cries for a couple of minutes, but Jon can see the exact moment that he decides to pull himself together. He shoves his emotions back down, into some mental box Jon’s sure he’ll open again soon to write a poem from. He stops his sobs and very intentionally levels out his breathing. He sits back slowly, dries his face on the sleeve of his shirt, and takes a moment to rearrange his expression into a convincing smile before he meets Jon’s gaze again. Jon smiles back at him.</p>
<p>Martin’s sat on the opposite side from the wounds in Jon’s torso, and he leans over and carefully pulls Jon’s shirt up to check on them. Jon can see from here that they’re not bandaged or covered, and they’re well on the way to healing. The scar tissue of the three wounds is thick but it’s not fresh. Jon touches it gently and again wonders how long he’s been unconscious, how quickly his accelerated healing has worked on them. Not six months this time, he suspects. Maybe even a matter of weeks. He taps his wrist, where a watch would normally sit, a silent question to Martin.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s – um,” Martin checks his phone. “It’s about half 6. In the morning.”</p>
<p>Jon raises an eyebrow at him. It takes Martin a good few seconds to realise what he means.</p>
<p>“Oh, right. It’s Sunday. You slept for a few days, yeah.”</p>
<p>Jon does the maths in his head quickly. Sixty hours? That can’t be right. He really made the decision and clawed his way back to life (or whatever he has in place of a life these days) in the space of sixty hours? He can’t believe it.</p>
<p>And then he looks at Martin again, still checking his wounds, still a little tear-streaked and tired. Concern and love are evident in his expression as he reaches across the bed to take Jon’s hand, and maybe Jon believes it after all.</p>
<p>Martin pulls Jon’s shirt back down and sits up again. “Do you want me to check y-your neck as well?” He doesn’t quite manage to suppress the stutter as he looks at what he did. Jon squeezes his hand and nods.</p>
<p>It’s a slow and painful process, getting the bandage off. The medical tape has adhered itself pretty firmly over the course of three days, and the whole area is so tender that every tiny tug of the skin makes Jon grimace and flinch away. But Martin is gentle and patient as ever, even stroking Jon’s hair as he tugs at the more stubborn bits of tape. It’s possibly the most physically intimate they’ve been. It’s certainly the most <em>vulnerable</em> Jon has felt under Martin’s touch. He can trust Martin, he knows that. He still can’t relax.</p>
<p>Eventually, after long minutes of gentle coaxing and awkward, fleeting eye contact, the tape is all removed. Martin visibly braces himself for the sight of a grisly injury, then takes off the dressing.<br/>
He screams. Jon raises his hands to reassure him, but Martin has dropped the bandage into Jon’s lap and is now backing away, staring.</p>
<p>Jon’s hands go to his neck inquiringly, but the gaping wound is still too raw for him to touch properly. Martin is hyperventilating on the other side of the room. “I’ll… I’ll get a mirror,” he says shakily, and hurries off.</p>
<p>Jon has an idea what has happened. The small mirror Martin shoves into his grip only confirms it.</p>
<p>The slash in his neck is still tender and bloody and surprisingly deep considering the small tool that made it. The very edges are starting to heal, just a little. The centre of the cut is warped and stretched by the pale, colourless eye that is now nestled into the space.</p>
<p>Jon doesn’t even have the energy to be surprised.</p>
<p>A little more of his humanity gone. A little more of the monster in its place. The price he pays for coming back again.</p>
<p>He checks the eyes in his face, and they are both the same dark brown they’ve always been, which is a relief. He tries to control the new eye, make it look one way or another, tries to see through it. For now it seems purely decorative, if gruesome. It’s the same size as his real eyes, maybe a little larger, and looks like it’s made of cloudy glass, still streaked messily with blood. It stares ahead with an unfocused gaze but he feels that maybe with recovery and practice he might yet be able to use it.</p>
<p>Even that small exertion tires Jon out completely and he lies back again, leaving the mirror beside him on the bed. Martin still looks frightened. He approaches but doesn’t come all the way to the bed, stopping in the middle of the room. He keeps staring at Jon’s neck. Jon covers it with a hand, and at last Martin looks up into his face. Jon tries to smile, but he doesn’t quite manage it.</p>
<p>“Maybe you should go back to sleep,” Martin says softly. Jon can see him choking down the fear, trying to tell himself that this is still the same Jon. It’s not, but Jon appreciates the sentiment.</p>
<p>“You look tired, and I know you haven’t eaten in a while but-” Comprehension dawns on Martin’s face as he realises what he’s saying. “You still need to eat! A – a statement, I mean. The last one didn’t exactly count, did it? Wait, I’ll get you another one, I checked the box and there’s plenty of genuine-” His expression turns dark.</p>
<p>“You can’t read them.”</p>
<p>Mute and resigned, Jon shakes his head. Maybe he would heal, if he were rested and well-fed. But without his voice, he can’t feed. Without feeding, he can’t recover his voice. He’s stuck.</p>
<p>Martin sits down on the edge of the bed thoughtfully. Jon holds his hand. They sit like that in silence for a few minutes. Jon starts to wish that Martin would say something to fill the stillness.<br/>
When Martin does finally speak, it’s so quiet that Jon thinks maybe he imagined it, or heard him wrong. “You can have my statement.”</p>
<p>Jon scowls. Martin pauses for a second and eyes Jon nervously, and then continues in a rush as if the words can’t escape fast enough. “You can have my statement,” he repeats. “I know you can’t – ask me for it, you can’t talk to compel me, but you don’t need to. I know you don’t, I know you can just – look at me. Like you did with Breekon. Take it straight out of my head. I heard about that, yeah, sorry, but – you don’t need to talk. You can just see my statement. Extract it.”</p>
<p>Jon knows he’s staring. He doesn’t care. He’s still trying to understand what Martin’s offering. Why would Martin be willing to do that? Why would anyone? He shakes his head, reluctant.</p>
<p>“Jon, please,” Martin continues, looking exasperated now. “You’ve got to eat something, and The Beholding won’t let me just tell you. Honestly, I don’t really want to have to tell you right now. You’ve got to take it. So…” He shifts his weight on the bed, as if making himself comfortable, and reaches out to hold Jon’s hand. “So take it.”</p>
<p>Jon is furious but he knows Martin’s right. A statement voluntarily given, with none of Jon’s powers in effect, is hardly a statement at all, just a conversation. Barely a snack. Just crumbs. And he can’t compel anyone right now (or maybe ever again). Unfortunately, Martin’s right. The fact that he’s also willing doesn’t make this feel any better, but Jon’s backed into a corner.</p>
<p>He nods his head. Better to get this over this.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter!! I really appreciate you all suffering along with me &lt;3 I suspect there'll be one more chapter after this, but who knows what my imagination will do in the meantime. I hope you're all staying safe and well!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, please mind the new tags for content warnings added this chapter! There's also some discussion of the Lonely, that dives into dissociation a bit. If you want to avoid that, skip the section in italics.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin would love to say he isn’t scared. He always wants to be the person who isn’t scared, who’ll unflinchingly do whatever it takes to keep Jon safe and alive. But he definitely flinches. He’s terrified.</p>
<p>But he’s still going to do it. And he supposes that counts for something.</p>
<p>In an ideal world, they wouldn’t have to hurt each other like this. Jon wouldn’t rip memories from Martin’s head. Martin wouldn’t slice Jon’s neck open and drive him further into the thrall of Beholding. But this keeps happening. Martin can’t help but think back over other times they’ve hurt each other. Jon fleeing the archives, a suspected murderer, without a word of apology, explanation or comfort. Martin crumpled and sobbing over a desk of burned papers, to keep Elias’ attention and his wrath away from Jon. Martin descending further into the deep fog of the Lonely and watching numbly as Jon’s heart broke.</p>
<p>They are always there for each other afterwards, though. They always come back together, always pick each other back up. That’s a reassuring thought for Martin as he sits cross-legged on the end of the bed by Jon’s feet.  Jon is still under the covers, pillows behind him to prop him upright. At Jon’s mimed instructions, Martin has fetched a pen and paper for him, and now he’s just waiting. His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists and rests them on the bed, hoping Jon can’t see.</p>
<p>He knows Jon can see. That’s sort of the point of the entire exercise. Jon knows exactly how scared Martin is.</p>
<p>Jon gives him a questioning look, and Martin nods. “Yes. Do it.” Now, quickly, before he gets scared and backs out.</p>
<p>There’s that intense scorching feeling again, like when Martin was trying to get close to Jon earlier. It’s not an aura this time. It’s focused, and it increases slowly until Martin’s skin is stinging with the laser-sharp feel of Jon watching him. Every instinct is telling him to get away. He looks at Jon and holds his ground.</p>
<p>Jon is staring back at him intensely. For a moment that’s all it is, just the two of them looking at each other over the length of the bed. And then Jon’s eyes go strangely blank. His expression goes slack. His mouth is moving slightly, as if he were whispering to himself, but of course there’s no sound coming out. If Martin wasn’t putting all his effort into not recoiling from the terrifying sense of wrongness, he’d spare a word to ask Jon what was happening.</p>
<p>Jon tilts his head up slightly. His eyes move to gaze dimly at a point on the ceiling above Martin’s head. Or rather, two of his eyes do.</p>
<p>As Jon looks up, his neck is exposed, and the pale eye is staring right at Martin. Martin doesn’t want to look into it. He really doesn’t. Keeping his gaze on Jon’s face, not looking into that terrible, staring eye, feels safer, like skirting round the edges of the fire. But even the edges burn, Martin feels himself being Seen in small degrees. He grits his teeth and raises one shaking hand to wipe the tears out of his eyes, and he looks back into the eye.</p>
<p>Martin is surprised. He feels Seen, completely and utterly Seen, every moment of him exposed, and he expected that. It doesn’t make it easier, of course, it’s still awful, but he was ready for it and he can tell himself that he chose it.</p>
<p>What Martin didn’t expect was to See.</p>
<p>He looks into the grisly, pallid eye and he sees something in it. Something powerful and unknowable, something that stirs underneath Jon’s skin, but even Jon has never seen it with the clarity that Martin does now. It’s colossal and wrong. It stares and it knows. It’s not something Martin should ever have been able to comprehend, but just for a moment he does.</p>
<p>And then he blacks out.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Jon dives forward just in time to catch Martin, preventing him from falling backwards off the bed. Martin is semi-conscious, his eyes moving rapidly under his eyelids and his muscles tense despite their unresponsiveness. Jon settles Martin into a more comfortable position, and strokes his hair in an attempt to calm him. As he does, he hears a click. When he turns back around and sees a tape recorder on his pillow, already running, he tries to laugh. Of course his attempt doesn’t produce a sound. It’s not really funny.</p>
<p>Martin slowly relaxes, curled up on the end of the bed, and Jon starts to write.</p>
<p>
  <em> I learned to control it, obviously, but the first time I disappeared it wasn’t exactly a power. It was just a thing that happened. Honestly, I thought it was something Peter had done to me. I thought it was the culmination of his big plan or whatever. Turned out it wasn’t even the start.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’d been avoiding everyone anyway, on his instructions. Basira and Melanie and – you. You even more than the others. After that time you caught me, when I was going past your office… well, the first time I disappeared wasn’t long after that. I don’t think that was a coincidence.</em>
</p>
<p><em>I don’t know exactly when it happened. It wasn’t unusual for me to go a few days without seeing anyone at all, so at first I didn’t even notice. But I think there were about four days in a row when I didn’t even see Peter, heard his voice a few times but didn’t </em>see<em> him, and that’s when I got a bit suspicious.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Even then I didn’t really realise what was happening, though. It wasn’t until Melanie walked in on me in the staff room. I tried not to spend much time in there, there was always too much risk of running into someone. But I’d been working hard on things for Peter and I wanted a cup of tea, and it was late so the risk of anyone finding me there was pretty low. When Melanie came storming in I was caught a bit off guard, I guess, and I was already looking for my exit plan. I knew Peter wouldn’t be happy if I got caught in a conversation again.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Melanie didn’t look at me. I mean, we hadn’t exactly been getting on well, but I at least got a hello from her most of the time, a nod, </em> something <em>. This time she didn’t even look. She just got herself a drink (whiskey, I think, like I say it was late and it wasn’t like anyone was going to stop her) and she sat down across the table and drank. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>I watched her for a bit. That might have been creepy, I suppose, but it didn’t feel like it. She felt so far away. It didn’t feel like spying on a colleague, or even like watching a stranger through their window. I wasn’t trying to snoop or eavesdrop or observe anything, really. It felt more like watching a character on a film. Like looking into a completely different world, one you can see but never inhabit. Where she existed on a completely different level, like her reality was just abstract from mine. But I knew her world was the real one, and I was just looking in.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I watched her until she passed out drunk. Pretty sure she wouldn’t have done that if I'd really been there. Once she was asleep, I went back up to Peter’s office and carried on working.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There were a few encounters like that. I phoned down to Rosie at reception one time to ask her about a delivery Peter was expecting, but she just kept repeating “Hello, Magnus Institute?” until she gave up and hung up on me. I had to go down to the archives to pick some statements up for Peter. I walked right past Basira’s desk and spent ten minutes rifling through files right behind her, and she didn’t acknowledge me at all. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>This went on for a few weeks. No-one saw me, no-one spoke to me, and I thought that was going to be it. I knew I was going to run into you at some point, but knowing in advance didn’t make it easier.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I didn’t like walking past your office in those weeks. Sometimes I could hear you in there, moving about and reading statements, and sometimes I couldn’t. Both options were usually pretty bad, so I just tried to avoid that part of the building. But there were days when it felt… good. Like I was indulging it. It was a day like that.</em>
</p>
<p><em>I’d just been sat on the floor outside your office for about an hour, listening to you. I was starting to understand what you’d always said, about feeding your patron. Revelling in it. There was just a door between us, but you were so - </em> so <em> far away. I think the Lonely liked that. I think maybe I did too.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>But then there wasn’t a door in the way. You’d come out into the hallway and you were just stood there.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It was the first time I’d seen your face in so long. I guess I’m probably supposed to say you were just as beautiful as I remembered you being, and obviously you were. You looked tired, and you had these worried little creases around your eyes that would normally have given me the impulse to make you tea, but you were still exactly as handsome as the first time I saw you, and every time since.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And I didn’t care.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I started moving away pretty quick, because Peter had already told me I wasn’t supposed to see you, but you moved faster. I don’t know where you were going, but you were muttering something about Basira so I guess you were looking for her. You stepped out into the hallway and you moved towards me. I pushed myself right up against the wall but – well, you know how narrow that hallway is. There was no way you weren’t going to touch me.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Except you didn’t. Your shoulder, your whole arm – it just went through me. Like I wasn’t even there.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I didn’t feel anything.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There wasn’t a breeze or a shift or a moment of cold chill as your arm went through me. You didn’t react either. It was like I wasn't there at all.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I watched you disappear down the hall and then I ran back up to the office. I think I ran. I don’t really remember, to be honest, I just know that I was in the hallway and then later I was in the office. I kept – slipping out of it. Out of the room. Out of the world. The best I can explain it is that I disappeared. Even I don’t know where I went.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Peter found me, in the end. He found me drifting, and I remember him taking me by the hand and guiding me back. I know I cried when I eventually saw him. God, I was disgusting. He just brought me back, a bit at a time, and he told me it was a good thing. It was a sign that the Forsaken was accepting me as one of its children. He told me I could control it, use it to my advantage. And that sounded better than being used </em> by<em> it. I was just so grateful to be in the world with someone again, that I listened and started learning, and eventually I could come and go as much as I wanted. But I never forgot how bad that first time was.</em>
</p>
<p>

<em> I think the worst thing was that no-one else even noticed I’d disappeared. I’d never exactly been the most important member of the team, and by that time, I was so absent anyway that it didn’t really matter whether I existed in the world with you all or not. It didn’t matter whether I was working away in Peter’s office or floating off in the depths of the Lonely. Not to you guys, anyway. I was already too far gone. </em>

</p>
<p>
Jon does record the statement. When he’s done writing it, the words just push their way up, through shredded and ruined vocal cords. Every syllable hurts, a tearing, ripping pain that he can’t vocalise. The tape recorder whirs and drones impassively and clicks itself off again as soon as he’s done. He spits up blood and tries to form words, but his throat is useless again. Still, if he’s only recovered enough of his voice to speak statements, that’s better than nothing.
</p>
<p>
Jon hates that he feels better after that. He’s used to the feeling of being nourished by other people’s suffering, but the fact that it’s <em>Martin’s</em> suffering makes it different. He’d like to say it makes it worse, but it doesn’t. Somehow, Jon’s love and guilt and horror and misery combine into a cocktail that feels almost comfortable. Like it’s what he’s supposed to have.
</p>
<p>
He gets out of bed and settles Martin on the pillows in his place. Martin’s started murmuring now, wordless exclamations of distress. He tosses and turns in his sleep, as if trying to get away from something. Jon allows himself a moment of tenderness, leaning down to kiss Martin’s forehead, before he leaves him to his nightmares.
</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>
Martin wakes up screaming. For a moment he forgets where he is and why he’s there. For a moment he’s not even certain who he is, except for the fact he’s afraid. But it rushes back quickly. Martin doesn’t stop screaming until Jon is back in the room.
</p>
<p>
Jon quickly goes to the bed and wraps Martin protectively in his arms. Martin presses his face to Jon’s chest and muffles his screaming for a while, until he’s calmed down enough for silent tears to escape him rather than awful shrieks. Finally, he looks up.
</p>
<p>
He’s grateful at least to see that Jon’s looking better. He seems to have more energy now, and his hair’s a little bit damp like he showered recently. That’s an improvement. Martin gives him a watery, shaky smile. “Feeling better then?” he asks.
</p>
<p>
Jon nods thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything.
</p>
<p>
“Didn’t fix your voice, though?”
</p>
<p>
He shakes his head this time, although the eye in his neck looks over to one side, and Martin follows its gaze to see a tape recorder on the windowsill.
</p>
<p>
“Just the statement?”
</p>
<p>
Another nod.
</p>
<p>
“Not quite as much as we hoped. You definitely look better, though.” Martin huffs out a breath and shifts in Jon’s arms. “That was… Well, I can see why you didn’t want to do it.” He laughs, but it doesn’t quite leave his mouth right, but he knows he has to admit the truth.
</p>
<p>
“That was really bad, Jon. I hated it.” The words land with a weight that betray just how much Martin is affected. He’s shaking again just thinking about it. “I know I offered, and I'm glad it helped, but promise me you won’t do that again.”
</p>
<p>
Jon holds Martin tighter to stop the shaking. The memory of Martin’s fear is still fresh and bright and <em>enticing</em>. He’s glad he doesn’t have the voice to make that promise. He isn’t convinced he’d keep it.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Soooo this is likely the end of this fic, for now at least. Series 5 might inspire me to do more of this, or it might distract me completely with some new ideas. Either way, thank you for all your lovely encouragement on my first foray into TMA fic!<br/>Good luck for season 5 guys x</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So this is my first fic in a loooong old time but TMA really inspired me to want to write again, so thank you RQ! &lt;3 I have more of this planned so comments are much appreciated to actually get my ass into gear and make me write the thing.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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